


I'd Rather Go Blind

by nicasio_silang



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicasio_silang/pseuds/nicasio_silang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a little over 1,000 words about Danny masturbating in the shower. That's it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Rather Go Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post-1x20.

Danny doesn’t want to be one of those Catholics with all these sexual hang-ups, and for the most part he isn’t, it’s just he never quite got over the idea that God’s watching while he masturbates. It’s unlikely, he knows that. For one thing, watching everyone masturbate would take up the majority of His time, and He has better things to do. For another thing, Old Testament stuff like that is really only meant to come up a couple times a year, and even then it’s mainly all Noah stuff during hurricane season and Cain and Abel when your brother’s acting like a dumbass. Throw in some Job when the Yanks are having the sort of early season that’s becoming horrifyingly familiar, and Song of Solomon is already basically the Bible equivalent of scenes in popular movies when famous actresses are unexpectedly topless, so, yeah, logically speaking he shouldn’t get too hung up on spilling a little seed into the dust.

Still, the idea freaked him out. Confessing this to his brother got him a Sistine-style face of God shellacked to the ceiling over his bed. Richie, four years younger and an unforgivable five inches taller, refused to remove it. 

“That’s not gonna come off clean, man, and I’m not gonna go to hell for defacing God’s image.”

“You leave that up there, I’m gonna go to hell for fratricide.”

“I put that there to help you out!”

“I’m gonna knock you out!”

It stayed there for three years. 

So he doesn’t feel secure jerking off in bed. He realized at age 17 that he was always sighing and apologizing when he came, not a habit he wanted to carry around into his sexual maturity. It was around then that he started masturbating almost exclusively in the shower. Something about all that tile around make the room feel safer, like God’s Superman vision was being blocked by lead-lined walls. In the steamy patter of the shower he could relax and let his mind wander, free as an atheist in a public restroom. 

Surprisingly, nearly every one of his sexual partners caught onto this. A college girlfriend named Paola was particularly perplexed. Would not let it go. Wanted him to put on a show while she sat at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, fully clothed, and watched. Neither the titty mags leafed through at the 7-Eleven nor the life-affirming gyrations of the Fly Girls had prepared him for this. He didn’t cry. It was a close thing.

“Are you _crying_?”

“No. I think we should break up.”

When renting his current place, he wasn’t really sold until he saw the bathroom. Like a bathroom in a 3-star hotel, it has just the right impersonal feel and conspicuously fussy lighting arrangement to seal it away from both the real world and God’s immaculate eyes. It’s a dim, sterile sanctum. And this morning it smells like Mindy.

Obviously women have used his shower before and left their girly smells behind, their cloying shampoos lingering and their long hairs clogging the drain. It’s gross and intrusive, but usually it’s because he’s sleeping with them and the bathroom stuff is just one of the annoying little accommodations that comes with the package. Like washing the sheets every week and responding to text messages. But Mindy was in here for, what, five minutes tops, just standing around, and still she’s left this ghost behind. 

Danny can’t identify smells. It’s not roses, it’s not lavender, it’s not vanilla. It’s a little acidic, but it’s not necessarily a sharp scent. It’s very summertime-- the season’s first lime through the neck of a Corona. It’s how she smells in the morning on the train when they manage to find seats. It’s in his head, and nobody’s watching while he touches himself. 

It’s the smell of her scrubs when he takes all their stuff down to the laundry collection. He likes to let his neck go loose, his chin on his chest, while he circles his wet palm around the head, spreading precum, almost no friction at all. Enough of that and he’s gotta squeeze hard right at the root and breathe, suck his lip into his mouth and bite it. He’s quiet. God might not be watching, but He could be listening from the other room. 

The smell that permeated her bedroom, the soft, human smell of sleep and clean, bare skin. He gets a dollop of conditioner into his hand and starts to pump. He’s angry at her; it’s better that way. Harder on the upstroke, his thumb pressing at the frenulum, sac pulled tight, his free hand crossed over his chest, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. He doesn’t want it to last, but it does anyway.

Her naked skin, neck to waist, close enough to touch. Her eyes wide and adjusting right after she takes off her glasses. Her hands when she’s scrubbing in: precise, thorough, slipping over and over each other. He leans his head on the wall. He takes his hand off his shoulder, slips it between his teeth, bites down hard enough to worry it’ll leave an impression, but past the point of caring. Tastes soap.

Her breasts in his hand. Not fair to go there, but she’s in his head, she’s in his shower, so her breasts in his hand, the give of them, nipples already hard, the look in her eyes. Nobody can see it so he says her name quietly, lips brushing right up against the cold marble. 

The frantic, white noise stage comes on without warning. Hips jacking himself into his fist, fingernails dragging across his chest to raise red stripes, his head tilting up finally, neck strained, and he comes onto his hand, his stomach, the floor, so warm, so emptying, the smell of his own spunk, the sound of his hands on his body. 

Danny wipes himself down with his eyes closing and closing. There’s nothing to feel weird about: he’s in the shower, he jacked off, that’s normal guy stuff. Behind his ribs, a fist clenches. Shampoo/conditioner, soap, then scrubber that is not a loofah. 

Toweling off in front of the clouded mirror he can see through the condensation that his color’s high in his cheeks. The bathroom floor is freezing, his hair is drying in a weird shape because he’s just standing there, feeling the heavy mist of warm air go into his lungs, feeling his soft cock sticking to the top of his thigh, feeling the hair on his arms prickle.

God cares about your body because you live in your body, and God cares about how you live. Danny’s eyes blink, dreamy, his arms feel loose. There’s a smell in the air, and he breathes it in, then walks out, past the bedroom window where anyone could look in and see.


End file.
